I’ve never met my Muse.

What I mean to say is, we’ve never been for­mally intro­duced. I like to imag­ine she comes at night and kisses my dreams with her intri­cate inspi­ra­tions. Only the good dreams though, she wants noth­ing to do with the self indul­gent tripe that some­times spews through my mind whilst I sleep. But if the dream is True she’ll turn it toward a story, an impos­si­ble tale of won­der that leaves me breath­less, scrab­bling for a pen in the early morn.

My minds eye paints her, stand­ing directly behind me a del­i­cate hand rest­ing lightly on my shoul­der. She is lithe, tall beyond rea­son and her exotic eyes con­tain a uni­verse of words. I believe that is why she won’t step from behind me and intro­duce her­self. For one look into her eyes and I would surely be lost for­ever amidst worlds upon worlds of pos­si­bil­i­ties. This is a fate I would not mind one bit. I think she knows this.

I haven’t named her, feel­ing that to be a bit pre­sump­tu­ous. I’ve imag­ined what she might look like and have a sort of rec­ol­lec­tion of the cadence of her speech. Like an old mem­ory of the mur­mur of your moth­ers voice as you pressed your head to her bosom as a child. Some­times I think I can almost under­stand the words through the buzzing, thump­ing racket of life. Then I relax, put pen to paper and let it talk for her.

I don’t know why she does what she does for me. I don’t know why she does what she does to me. Wis­dom and expe­ri­ence ver­sus igno­rance and bliss, on dark days I would glee­fully choose the lat­ter. I think she knows this too, and an apolo­getic eye sheds two tears for my pain. Though this doesn’t stop her from dri­ving the Real into my mind at every turn of cir­cum­stance, with every wolf-song howl.

We are locked in a dance as old as time. Our par­tic­u­lar dance may be a polka or a waltz, a stilted coun­try two-step or a pas­sion­ate samba. I believe that is up to me. In other words, I am lead­ing. After all we’ve been through and all that is likely to be ahead of us, I still can’t help but won­der, “Why me?” Why do I get this bless­ing, this alba­tross of her atten­tions? The stress of her regard often unmans me.

The Spaniards Inn, Lon­don 2010

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